Ghost in the Machine
by Disgruntled Peony
Summary: Even after death, the gland still has a hold on Darien...


Title: Ghost in the Machine  
Author: liz_Z  
E-mail: liz_Z@secret-agent.com  
Category: Drama, Angst  
Rating: PG-13  
Spoilers: References to 'The Other Invisible Man' and 'Brother's Keeper'.  
Season/Sequel info: Takes place in the future, about a year after the second season- or to be more specific, a year after 'Exposed', since that's the latest episode I've seen.  
Disclaimer: They aren't mine. And until (not unless, UNTIL) the show gets renewed for a third season, I have no chance of them ever being mine in any way, shape, or form. When (not if, WHEN) the show gets renewed for a third season... well, then we'll see.  
Author's notes: Yep, it happened again. A plot bunny jumped me after midnight, and it wouldn't let go. And, as you may have noticed, any plot bunny that jumps me after midnight usually has something to do with angst- okay, it usually has a LOT to do with angst. Consider yourself warned.

  
I'm dead, you know. Well, at least in the general sense of the word. My body's long dead and buried, and my brain along with it. But... in a way I'm still alive, thanks to the gland. It's funny; after the Simon Cole incident and that thing with Kevin, I never thought I'd actually be happy about anything to do with memory RNA. In fact, I'd pretty much forbidden Claire to talk about it any more. But for once, I think it and the gland have actually done me a favor.

  
Now, after the life I've led for the past two years, I thought I'd die either from getting caught by a stray bullet or by winding up on the operating table. So you can bet it was pretty damn anticlimactic when a drunk driver crashed his pick-up truck into my car and both of us went careening off a bridge. I died; he didn't. Talk about a reality check. I can't speak for the guy who was driving that pick-up, but I haven't had so much as a stray beer ever since.

  
Claire got the gland out okay, needless to say. After all, if she hadn't I wouldn't be here now, would I? The gland was a little waterlogged, but still in working condition. Only thing was, Claire needed a new host for it, and soon. So, the Official started searching for a new guy to dupe into the job. But, as it turned out he didn't need to. He didn't need to because before he and Eberts had even been able to draw up a list of possible new receptacles, Hobbes volunteered for the job.

  
I still can't believe Hobbes did that. I mean, I would've thought that after seeing just how bad it was after being my partner for two years he wouldn't want to go anywhere near it. He thought he could handle it, I guess. He told the fat man he didn't trust anyone else with it. But Claire told me later that that wasn't the only reason he volunteered to have the gland put in his head; he also did it for me. For me. He wanted to give me a second chance at life, so to speak.

  
The first thing the Official ordered once Hobbes woke up from his coma was that my memory RNA be removed from the gland. He said he didn't want any 'ghosts' wandering around the Agency at night. But Claire didn't do it. Oh, sure, she told the Official she had. But she was lying. Boy, am I glad she was lying.

  
It took a while before I actually 'came back to life'. But hey, it took Simon Cole a while too, and Claire was afraid to rush the process because she might inadvertently mess it up and I'd end up dead for good. But, while it was months for Hobbes, Claire, and everyone else at the Agency before I began to manifest myself, for me the whole thing was pretty much instantaneous.

  
Okay, picture this. A huge pick-up truck rams you off the road into a river, your head slams against the steering wheel so hard you black out for a second, and when you come to your car is upside down in the river and the cab is filling up with water. The dashboard and your car seat have been crumpled so unnaturally close together that you can't move your head away from the steering wheel if you try, and the water's up to your hair, then your forehead, then your eyes, then your nose... Eventually your head is completely submerged and there's nothing you can do about it.

  
You hold your breath for as long as you can, but finally you can't hold it in any longer and suck in a breath. Only it's not air you suck in; you can feel your lungs filling up with water. That throws you into a panic, but you can't move because of the way the car seat and the dashboard are crunched up so close, and trying to scream just results in getting even more water into your lungs. Finally, after what seems like hours, you pass out...

  
And then you wake up in bed, gasping for breath, and you're so freaked out it takes you nearly a full minute to realize you're sucking in air, not water.

  
Your first impression would be that the whole thing was a really, REALLY bad dream, right? I know that's what I thought at first. And then, all of a sudden, I realized three things; the bed I was laying in wasn't mine, I felt a lot shorter than I used to, and there was someone else in bed with me. Let me tell you, if anything threw me for a loop it was definitely finding myself in bed with a woman. I mean, that hadn't happened in... Well, let's just say it hadn't happened in a long time.

  
But the thing that threw me for the biggest loop of all was that the woman I was in bed with turned out to be Claire.

  
After what I had just been through, this was way too much for me. I woke Claire up pretty quickly, although I can't say I did it very politely; I screamed and jumped out of bed, pulling half the sheets with me. Then I basically crawled into a corner and curled up into a fetal position, trying my hardest not to do what seemed, to my body at least, to be the most reasonable reaction at the time- peeing in my pants in fright.

  
It took Claire nearly half an hour just to calm me down enough that I could listen to her without panicking, and even then it wasn't a sure thing. But eventually she was able to explain to me what had happened. I had indeed drowned, and for the last six months or so my memory RNA had been lying dormant in the gland, which was now firmly situated in Hobbes' skull. Surprisingly, once I'd calmed down that didn't take her a very long time to explain. It took her a lot longer to explain exactly why she was in bed with me, though- or, to be more precise, why she was in bed with Hobbes.

  
Apparently, about three months after my demise, Hobbes had fallen into depression. He was getting upset about how long it was taking the gland to bring me back via the Simon Cole express, and he was also finding out the hard way that the gland was a pretty big burden to carry around in your head twenty four hours a day, seven days a week. He stopped taking his meds, and one day he came about an inch away from eating a bullet from his own gun.

  
That was a wakeup call, not just to Claire, but everyone in the Agency. After that, Hobbes got a lot of unwanted 'friends', usually in black suits and sunglasses, following him around. He also got Claire to realize just how much she didn't want him dead.

  
It had taken a while for Hobbes to recover from his depression and his attempt at suicide, and Claire had helped every step of the way. And slowly, bit by bit, she wore down his resolve about 'no fishing off of the company pier'. They'd been sleeping together for almost three weeks when I re-entered the picture.

  
I didn't believe it at first. In fact, I flat out refused to believe a word of what Claire had told me. And then she handed me a mirror, and instead of myself I saw Hobbes reflected back at me. That freaked me out so bad I really did pee in my pants.

  
I've been 'alive' for about three and a half months now. It's not too bad an existence; I don't have to work at the Agency any more and I wake up beside Claire pretty much every night. Of course, there are lots of things I miss; my car, my apartment, my hair. But most of all I miss Hobbes. I mean, I can't exactly just head over to his side of the brain and pay him a visit.

  
Sure, we've found ways of keeping in touch. We do the videotape thing, kind of like I did for Kevin. And we write letters to each other sometimes, too. And sometimes we even get Claire to say stuff for us. But let me tell you, it's hard to look in the mirror every night and see the face of your best friend when you know you'll never be able to really talk to him again in his lifetime.

  
I'm dead, you know. But I'm still hanging around, and I'm probably the closest thing to a ghost the Agency will ever have haunting its halls. And unless Hobbes gets caught by a stray bullet or winds up on the operating table, I'm gonna continue haunting them for a long, long time.  


The End 


End file.
